by Randall Wood
Jack thumbed the mute button as he scrambled out of his chair and raced down the hall to the bedroom. He fumbled through his clothes on the floor, searching the pockets. Where the hell had he left it? Was it even on? Did the battery die? He fell to the floor and searched under the bed. There, that pair of jeans. He dragged them out and riffled the pockets. There it is. He looked at the screen and saw nothing.
“Damn it!” He palmed the dead device and raced back down the hall to the kitchen junk drawer so full he could barely open it. He rummaged through the mess, but didn’t see what he needed. Now what?
The remote?
He returned to the man-chair and pulled the back panel off the remote. He stole an AA battery, swapped it for the dead one in his department pager, and turned it on.
“Come on, baby, work for me,” Jack pep-talked the device and the tiny screen lit up, and after blinking for a few seconds, delivered a message.
888
“Yes!” Jack pumped a fist in the air.
Now where the hell was his cell phone?
• • •
John Kimball ignored the looks he got from the passing platoon of paratroopers as he ran down the packed orange clay of the firebreak. The North Carolina winters were mild, and while the temperature was good for a run, the damp clay stuck to his running shoes and made for a slippery surface. He noted a couple of paratroopers sporting orange coatings on their otherwise gray PT uniforms, the victims of their own carelessness. He caught up to another platoon running in his direction and matched speeds to the cadence of the sergeant leading them. He enjoyed the off-color song, knowing it would have to change to something more traditional as they neared the post again. He turned north after a mile and headed back to his own duties.
While he wore military clothing similar to theirs for his morning run, his longer hair and non-regulation mustache marked him as one of “Them.” The fact that they were in area J of the Fort Bragg training zones, just south of the Delta Force compound, gave credit to their assumptions. While the compound appeared on the maps as an impact area—clearly marked off-limits due to live gunfire and possible unexploded munitions—everyone knew what it was and whom it supported. The triple-fence perimeter and snake-like concrete entrance just added to the mystery. Rumor had it that the majority of the space was underground, and they were right, especially all the latest editions. One of which John Kimball was in charge of.
As he neared the gate, the guard waved him down from a distance. He complied by slowing to a jog, placing his hands on his head, and jogging backward for a few yards. Picking up a walk for the last thirty meters, he pulled his ID out from inside his shirt and held it up.
The guard held out a laptop-size item similar to a computer. John swiped his card before wiping his hand on his shorts and placing it on the screen. The computer announced with a beep and a green light that he was allowed and the guard let him pass. Passing through the airlock-like double gate, he then stretched out his stride till he was past the Delta buildings and into his own. Like theirs, his had no label of any kind, not even a number to distinguish it from the others. All the buildings were simple red brick with windowless metal doors. Some of his people used the last two numbers of its grid location to identify it, but that was as far as it went toward getting a name. His building only differed in the amount of climate control equipment on the roof. Obviously much more than was needed for a building of its size, it was not unusual in this neighborhood. But only the people working there knew the real reasons for the equipment.
The sound of the door chime was drowned out by the C-5 Galaxy aircraft passing overhead as it took off from Pope Air Force base, probably carrying a load of gear, or troops, or both, heading over to Afghanistan. The flights were regular now, or so he was told. He couldn’t hear the planes from his office.
Proceeding through another set of doors that automatically locked behind him, he didn’t bother glancing at the cameras that followed his progress to the elevator. Once on board, he slid his card again through a slot on the wall before punching his floor. The doors shut and then sealed with a hiss before descending. What the neighbors did not know was that while the building had four stories above ground, they were all utilized for air handling purposes. A variety of pumps, filtering units, electrostatic dust collectors and climate control equipment crowded the space. All functions were backed up and then backed up again. There were technicians stationed in the spaces twenty-four hours a day, and the facility had the ability of being sealed off entirely from the outside world for up to six months.
It was staffed much like a nuclear reactor, as it was even more dangerous. Thus it had been placed where everyone accepted secrecy, and no one dared to question.
The elevator arrived at S-12, or sub-floor twelve, and the doors broke their seal before opening. Kimball stepped out a few feet and turned to enter the men’s locker room. Here he disrobed completely and after a quick shower, moved to the large locker at the end of the room. Removing a jumpsuit in his size he peeled the sealed plastic from around it. The plastic went into a specially marked bin and he quickly donned the garment. Once dressed, he passed through another door into a glass airlock. Holding his arms up, he was blasted repeatedly by jets of air, similar to what one would be subject to passing through a security checkpoint at a major airport. He waited while the air was sucked up through the floor and the computer processed the sample. It took a few seconds for the advanced bio-sensors to do their job, but eventually the glass door opened with a buzz, allowing him to proceed.
“Good morning, Mr. Kimball,” a guard greeted him.
“Yes,” he simply replied. He had long since ceased caring what others thought of him. The man was just a guard, not worthy of his time.
He proceeded down a sealed concrete hallway devoid of any decorative additions other than the ominous biosensor every ten meters until he reached his office. Here he was greeted by the usual pile of paperwork stacked neatly in his IN basket. Everything else in the office was neat and orderly. John Kimball was a detail man in a detail business, one where the smallest mistake could mean death. It showed in every aspect of his life.
He had not even sat down when he heard a knock on the door behind him. He turned to see one of his operations people. Although he was dressed the same as John, the similarity ended there. The baggy jumpsuit did little to hide the man’s physique or body language. If that didn’t say “field operative,” the haircut certainly did.
“What is it?” John asked.
“We have a problem, sir. Terrorists have bombed P-13. Our storage there has been compromised. We are unable to locate the caretaker. He may be dead.”
Kimball absorbed this without emotion. They had little threat of exposure at this point. With the caretaker gone they would have to move fast to clean up the agents before they were mishandled, or worse, compromised and sold on the black market.
“You have people in the area?”
“No, sir. The team is currently at P-18 setting up a secure storage facility. If we pull them out it will raise some questions, and possibly leave the agents without a caretaker,” he replied. “We have a transport crew of three within twenty hours distance, but that’s all.”
Kimball thought this through. One of the big disadvantages of the project was the lack of personnel. While need-to-know was applied, some always did need-to-know, and one cover story did not work for all contingencies.
“Safeguard the agent in place at P-18 and move the crew to P-13. Assign a new caretaker and get those three men there as soon as possible. I want updates every half hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kimball rounded his desk and sat down. Picking up the remote, he thumbed on the TV and surfed till he found CNN. A helicopter view of the embassy rubble slowly moved across the screen. He waited patiently till he saw a view of the warehouse next door. One end was in rubble while the other was intact. He knew exactly where every vial ever made was and the picture gave him reason to suspect that t
he vials were not mixed. He debated taking more measures to secure the agents, but chose not to. Secrecy was still their best option. The program was almost at the point it could be deployed if the time came. He could not afford to attract attention at this time.
He considered calling some old contacts he maintained from his days with the CIA. But then he would owe favors, and they would be curious as to what he was doing since he had left. Hard to collect a favor if you didn’t know what someone was capable of. One of their best biological warfare hunters just disappearing in the middle of an armed conflict was not unusual, but for him to stay gone was. There were still plenty of people that needed watching. North Korea, Iran, China, Pakistan, our new/old friends the Russians, the new government of Iraq, and, of course, every terrorist group out there. He decided he would just stay quiet and off the radar. He would most likely get what he needed from the press anyway. It would just take a little longer.
He turned the TV off and picked up a report on Arctic Tern migration. They had been tracking them very closely this year.
• • •
Study warns of dire overheating of crops, food crisis by 2100 January 13, 2009—USA Today
—THREE—
“It’s about time Jack, I’ve been stalling for a couple of hours now. Where the hell have you been?”
“Sorry, sir, I was at the beach house to get away from the press, and I kind of let my pager die,” Jack confessed as they turned to walk down the seventh floor hallway of the Hoover building. Jack had broken a few speed limits on his trip in from Delaware.
“Let your pager die?”
“Well, you’re the one who put me on vacation, sir.”
“Touché, thanks for pointing that out. You can consider that vacation over as of now. You saw the news this morning I take it? The AG wants a team sent to figure out if Osama’s boys are behind this as they claimed, or if it’s somebody else using their name. You can pick your people, but you’ll have some additions from State and the CIA. No arguments right now, Jack, just hear me out. This is big and we need to move quickly. There was some protest when your name came up. You’re lucky to get this assignment at all. This is your chance to get back in the game.”
“Why me, sir? I really don’t have that much experience in Africa.”
“I know. And I mentioned that, but they didn’t debate it very long and you got the green light. You care?”
“Not yet. Something tells me I might later,” Jack replied.
The Deputy Director stopped walking and looked around. Jack straightened his tie while he waited. His boss lowered his voice.
“Look, Jack, it’s like this. You pissed off a lot of people when they found out the shooter we were chasing was your personal friend.” He held up a hand before Jack could interrupt. “I know it wasn’t your fault, but the way things ended on live TV didn’t make you or the Bureau look good. That senator had a lot of friends. I’m not sure why your name came up for this, but Africa is a long way from DC and maybe that’s why, they could just want you farther away. If you find something and do well they can say they always had faith in you, and they look good for backing you and the FBI. If you screw up, they can use it against you and the Bureau and give the investigation to another agency. Some of these guys are hoping you drop the ball. I know you hate the politics, but that’s the way it is. So, when we go through those doors, just be a good little soldier, toe the line, and we’ll get you back on the front line, okay?”
Jack nodded. “Okay.”
“That’s my boy.”
They turned and entered the large double doors. All conversation stopped as Jack found himself in the Bureau’s largest conference room. It was used for meetings involving the upper echelon or the elected committee members. The walls were richly paneled in dark wood, and oil paintings adorned them, depicting highlights in the FBI’s history. A large portrait of Hoover himself looked down from one end of the room. The windows were floor to ceiling, and the faint buzz of elevator music vibrating the glass to foil eavesdropping devices could be heard if one listened closely. The table was larger than any Jack had seen in his corporate days and it was ringed by high-backed leather chairs. Two empty ones sat waiting for him and his boss, and they took them facing several men and women. Jack couldn’t help but note that there were no aides standing on the sidelines taking notes. Some of the people he recognized, but most he didn’t.
“I apologize for the delay everyone,” his boss addressed them. “We can proceed whenever you wish.”
The room shifted its collective gaze to the man seated on the opposing end of the table. Jack recognized the man as Senator Kenneth Teague of Texas, the longtime chairman of the Senate Arms Services Committee. He was infamous for being a hard-ass, both for and against, when it came to the military. The senator had very clear ideas on what he thought the military needed and didn’t need, and billions of dollars rested on his yea or nay votes. Now that the Department of Homeland Security had been added to the country’s defensive arm, he had gained influence into the intelligence and antiterrorism world. There were many who felt he wielded too much power, but few that had the cover to oppose him. No President had won Texas without his support, and the current President was a personal friend of the senator.
“Mr. Randall, I have no doubt you know why you were summoned here today. This embassy bombing is another setback in our war on these terrorists. I have your file here—” he placed his hand on a thick manila folder on the table in front of him, “—and I can see you’ve had a short, but impressive career here at the FBI. Normally I would expect the CIA to rectify their mistake of not averting this type of attack by bringing in those responsible for it. But I’m afraid they are focused elsewhere at this time. An investigation into this bombing is just that, an investigation. We have determined that the FBI has the best resources to execute and complete this task. I’m also told you are the man we need to conduct it.”
Jack forced himself to not look to his boss for support. The questions in his mind were popping up faster than he could process them. How did he get my file? Was it my FBI file? My military file? Who cares, he has it. He can have it anytime he wants! Why are they so eager to send me? He recalled something an old teacher had told him. When it all goes to hell, just fix one thing at a time.
“Thank you, sir,” Jack offered.
“You have some special operations experience?” the senator probed.
He already knows what I have, Jack thought, this was for the others present. Or it was a test. Don’t be a pushover.
“Sir, I apologize, but I don’t know every party present here. I feel it would be inappropriate to discuss that here today.”
“Fair enough. Ever been to Africa?”
Jack hesitated again, but the senator let him off the hook.
“Simple yes or no will work Agent Randall. I’ve been six times myself.”
“Yes, sir, just not to Tanzania.”
“Know a lot about bombs, do you?” The senator smiled as he asked.
“I know the fundamentals pretty well, sir.”
“Very well. You know what to look for. I think we can get you some help from some of our people in the area?” He directed the question to a man seated across from Jack.
“Whatever he needs,” was the man’s reply.
It suddenly dawned on Jack who the man was. Anthony Beason, the newly appointed Deputy Director of Operations for the Central Intelligence Agency. The man responsible for every field spook the agency had deployed. He saw every piece of intelligence that came in from every asset they had. A powerful man in his own right, yet he seemed to defer to the senator.
“Good. Mr. Randall, you will assemble your team and depart as soon as possible. The Bureau will be the lead agency on this investigation and I expect all others represented here today to back him up. Are there any questions?” The senator didn’t look around the room when he asked it, and a tap of Deacon’s foot against Jack’s ankle erased any from his mind. After a pause,
everyone rose with the senator and filed out of the room. Soon Jack was left with just himself and his boss.
“That was quite a show,” Jack ventured.
“Yes, it was. Look, Jack, the senator is a hard man, but he gets the job done. He’s managed to cut a lot of pork from the defense budget while still giving up a lot of money for what he thinks they all need, and if the bastard wasn’t right every time he wouldn’t be where he is today. Hell, he hasn’t had a real challenge to his seat since he got elected. Today he sees a mission that needs to be done, and he’s stepping on some heads to see that it doesn’t get used as a stepping stone by some bureaucrat, or bungled due to inter-service rivalry. He pressured the others to get you the job.”
Jack thought about it and the full definition of his new position came into stark clarity. His name had no doubt been discussed at length before it was mentioned to the suits that had just left the room. With his current public-hero status combined with his internal problems, he was good for all contingencies. They could point out that their hero had done it again if he succeeded, or they could ease him right out of the Bureau if he failed. He was disposable, if necessary. The right man for the job, huh? From their point of view, he was perfect.
